


Hold Me Back (Or Hold Me Close)

by adamwhatareyouevendoing



Category: Inspector George Gently
Genre: Huddling For Warmth, M/M, Sharing a Bed, THERE WAS ONLY ONE BED
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-15
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-13 06:34:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28773915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adamwhatareyouevendoing/pseuds/adamwhatareyouevendoing
Summary: They’ve played this part before, on occasion, unspoken and undercover, and only ever when Gently decides the moment suits. Of course it means nothing to him to spend a whole night in John’s company under this pretence.A snowstorm leaves Gently and Bacchus stranded overnight. The weather turns out to be the least of their problems.
Relationships: John Bacchus/George Gently
Comments: 5
Kudos: 7





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> You guessed it, the problem is they have to share a room... and there's only one bed.
> 
> Set sometime after 'Gently in the Cathedral', mid-S6 probably works best.

John eyes the deteriorating weather with growing trepidation as the storm outside begins to rage in earnest. Winter has never been his favourite time of year. It makes even the simplest of cases seem bleak.

“If she’s out in this...” he starts, but refuses to follow the thought to its conclusion. The girl they’re searching for is only sixteen, and has already been missing two days. 

Gently, as ever, remains steadfast despite the increasingly unfavourable outlook. “We’ll find her,” he says, taking John’s arm as they step once more into the biting cold, his body a shield of warmth at his side.

They’ve faced more perilous situations together than a snowstorm in Newcastle, of course, but even Gently’s brow darkens with apprehension as the inclement weather sends passing visitors vying for a place to spend the night. 

Another hour yields no fresh leads, and a host of no vacancy signs turned in their wake.

“There’s one that wouldn’t turn us away,” John says, indicating Gently’s car as they pass simply to share in his smile. They both know there is no chance of returning to Durham tonight in these conditions.

Besides, it’ll save precious time to start out fresh in the morning, before the trail freezes entirely.

They end up returning to the back street B&B they’d started their enquiries in that morning, Gently’s hand gripping John’s forearm as he skids on a particularly icy patch of pavement—steadying his step, but not his heart rate.

The landlady pouts sympathetically at their situation, and John can only watch, helpless with amusement, as she bows obligingly beneath the full force of Gently’s strategically applied charm, clearly less oblivious to her flirtation this morning than it suited him to pretend under John’s needling.

John can see through the act, of course, having been on the receiving end of enough of his rare, genuine smiles to know the difference. But, strategic or not, Gently’s raw charisma has the power to work on both the sinners and the saints, and the proprietor of a small bed and breakfast is no match for him, even if John suspects she’d dominate him in any other scenario.

“I’m afraid we only have the one room left, love,” she says, fluttering her eyelashes as though she’s thinking of dragging Gently there by the tie and leaving John to fend for himself for the night. His twinge of annoyance feels justified, considering she’s nearer John’s age than Gently’s. “It’s a bit of a squeeze for two people, but of course you’re welcome to—”

“We’ll take it,” Gently confirms, accepting the key she slides across the front desk without a single glance over to John, who ducks his head and stares studiously at the carpet, just in case they happen to notice his cheeks flushing deeper than can entirely be blamed on the cold.

It’s a matter of pride, of principle. It has nothing to do with the blood burning in his veins, the prickling heat crawling its way up the back of his neck as the landlady looks between them and draws whatever conclusion she chooses to reach about two men readily agreeing to share a room. Gently merely flashes her another winning smile, an alluring mix of gratitude and coyness lingering at the edges, as though her judgement is of no concern to him.

Which it isn’t, John knows, swallowing the strange and bitter ache that accompanies the thought. They’ve played this part before, on occasion, unspoken and undercover, and only ever when Gently decides the moment suits. Of course it means nothing to him to spend a whole night in John’s company under this pretence. There is no possible reason the thought would spark anything to stir in his chest. There is no credible explanation John can give for why it does in his.

None he’d be willing to swear under oath, anyway.

Gently’s hand settles on his shoulder to draw him from distraction, a murmured, “Come on, son,” as he starts towards the stairs, and John follows him, as he always has, regardless of whatever awaits them there. Two single beds on opposite sides of a hotel room, no matter how small, holds no more threat to their partnership than almost dying by each other’s side. It’s all about perspective.

“Ah,” Gently says, paused in the open doorway with a rueful expression. Hardly the Savoy, then, or whatever familiar comfort he was hoping for. ”A squeeze, indeed.”

John closes the few paces between them to peer into the room over his shoulder. ”Oh.”

The size of the room is suitable enough. The furnishings, however, leave something to be desired. In the middle of the faded floral carpet, framed by sleet-streaked sash windows, sits a solitary double bed.

When Gently finally turns to meet his eyes, John can only shrug. Nonchalance is easier to achieve with action rather than words. “I’ll take the couch,” he offers needlessly, approaching the offending piece of furniture with no small amount of trepidation.

Gently quirks an eyebrow but doesn’t offer further comment, even to repeat the insinuations that John still remembers from their first case together, teasing words that he withdraws from his memory on occasion to torture himself with. Perhaps he expects John to storm back down to the front desk and cause a scene, leaving them with no accommodation and an awkward, hazardous drive home. John half-wonders at the same.

For all he has remade himself under the constant, challenging weight of Gently’s expectations into a man he can be proud of, he’s still waiting to be recognised as such.

The flash of disappointment that follows Gently’s dropped gaze is hard to miss, especially for someone as familiar with the expression as John is. “Or would you rather I slept in the car, hmm?” he bites out, taking a step closer to the door and to Gently. “Don’t worry, I’ll send the landlady up to you on my way out.”

“John,” Gently sighs, and John flinches, too used to gruff chastisement that for a moment he only hears a warning. “I don’t want to share my bed with her.”

John swallows. He doesn’t think Gently means for it to sound the way it does. “Right,” he says, fighting not to shift beneath the scrutiny. Gently’s expression is suddenly curiously unreadable.

“Stay,” Gently says, and though it isn’t quite a command, John obeys.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have another little piece of my heart now, baby.

A noise startles John awake sometime between dusk and dawn, weak light filtering through the thin, tattered curtains from the street outside. His breath mists in the chill night air as he searches for its source.

It is Gently, over in the bed, caught in the grips of a nightmare. A common occurrence, no doubt, after all the traumas he has faced during the war and beyond, but John’s heart rate ticks up in anxious response. He pads across the room without further consideration, split by the shape of his own fears that so often bear Gently’s mark upon them.

“Guv,” John tries tentatively, bringing a careful hand to rest on his shoulder over the blanket, defenceless in the soft dark.

Gently does not stir, save for another dream-induced flinch and a further burst of incomprehensible muttering. John is about to remove his hand—remove himself and return to the warmth of the sofa in the hope that Gently will soon find the elusive peace John cannot give, from dreams he ought not be privy to—when he catches his name on Gently’s lips, low and guttural, like a thunderstorm close to breaking.

John stills at the sound, a bolt from the blue as the scene rewrites itself, Gently’s torment brought into sharp, sudden clarity even as John’s shoulder twinges in sympathy. His name again, loud as a gunshot beneath vaulted ceiling in the silence.

He moves without thought to the action and where it might lead, slipping into the bed behind Gently, the mattress dipping beneath his weight as he settles at his Inspector’s side.

They’ve never spoken about the events leading them to the cathedral, not truly. Not in the way John wishes they would, when he wakes at night, panting and sweating, Gently’s name still clawing its escape at his throat.

They argued, of course, in the aftermath—Gently’s stubborn conviction squaring up against John’s equal determination. He has hurled unfeeling accusations and let himself be pinned to as many walls as Gently has seen fit to press him against, breath heavy with frustration, all to hide the wounded, vulnerable part of himself that aches to admit the gnawing fear that one day, Gently will go somewhere John can’t follow.

That one day, he’ll be too late. One day, he won’t be able to save him.

It’s the closest to an admission he could give, until now—lying next to Gently with one bare inch of space between them, unable to hold onto the pretence that it wouldn’t have been an honour, to die by his side. Hero-worship isn’t a good look on anybody, even if he could pretend that’s all it is.

Here, at least, it’s safe enough to confess it, even if Gently will never know.

Almost as though he can sense the path John’s thoughts have taken, Gently shifts in disturbed sleep. His foot brushes John’s calf, John’s breath caught and held between them, but he does not wake. The intimacy of the touch is not the only thing to steal his breath, however. Gently’s skin is cold—as cold as the tiled floor on which they lay, clinging to life together.

Unsurprising, perhaps, considering the unplanned nature of their stay, but their attire is hardly suitable for the weather. To save creasing their shirts and suits, they had both elected to strip down to vest and underwear. It’s a choice that John is now regretting, as he reaches out with traitorous hand to brush over the bare skin of Gently’s arm.

Concern quickly replaces any misplaced notions of propriety. From the little he knows of hypothermia, such a consistent chill across exposed skin must be bad news. Gently had once explained the laws of thermodynamics to him, the time John slipped into the river on one of their fishing trips, and emerged soaking and shivering to be led ashore with the warmth of Gently’s hand blooming on his shoulder. He had been too preoccupied to pay much attention to the words, then, stripping off his waterlogged waders and the clothes beneath under Gently’s watchful gaze.

The basic principle, he recalls, is heat. More precisely, the sharing of body heat.

They hadn’t needed to go that far, on that unseasonably warm spring day, when a thick blanket and a flask of tea were readily at hand, but the intensity of Gently’s gaze as he imparted that particular piece of knowledge is hard to forget, especially now he has cause to use it.

John takes the cowardly way out, in the end, turning carefully onto his side and resting his back against Gently’s, pushing aside the urge to curve into his body instead. It is late, and it is dark, and an impulse of such nature can only be judged as reckless and unwise.

He needn’t stay any longer than necessary—just until he can be certain that Gently won’t freeze to death in his sleep. Just until his breathing has calmed and his dreams have quietened. No longer... Just until...

* * *

John wakes, slow and unfurling, nestled in the warmth of sheets with a warm body in his arms. It’s not something unusual in itself, except for the fact the person he’s pressed against is firm and broad, and definitely not a woman.

It’s not a fact that can be ignored, no matter how much he may wish to deny its existence and the shameful heat it comes to spark in his stomach. It’s not a fact that Gently can ignore either, now. Their proximity has put paid to any hopes of privacy in that particular respect.

“John,” he says, raw and far too gentle, quiet understanding where there ought to be confusion or even disgust.

John lets out a ragged breath, and opens his reluctant eyes. He has faced down thieves and murderers, has squared up against Gently in the boxing ring and across the office more times than he can count, but never has his heart pounded as furiously as in this moment.

“You were having a nightmare,” he manages. It should stand as explanation enough, excepting their current circumstances. John prays Gently will be too polite to mention his presence in his bed, even as he shifts away to a respectable distance to remove the evidence of it.

“It happens, periodically,” Gently supplies, stretching comfortably into the space John has just vacated. “I’m sorry you had to endure it too.” His tone is the kind he adopts with their suspects when he knows there is a deeper truth hiding behind their words, but John can’t bring himself to resent it.

There’s a lot he has come to regret in life, but the memory of Gently pressed against him, freed from solitude and recrimination, breathing slow and measured and alive—he could never regret that, no matter how much he ought to.

“I’m not,” he says, relieved to finally admit it, regardless of whether Gently recalls the subject of his terrors enough to catch the double meaning, or whether he is alone in that too.

Perhaps he knows. Perhaps he doesn’t. Either way, it’s between them, now. Even if all else remains unsaid, John intends to prove his loyalty, every chance he gets, even with action alone.

One day, he hopes, it’ll be enough.


End file.
